


Jorge's Day

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3949480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small group of Nations attend a garden party on the feast day of a patron saint some of them share. It's <i>obviously</i> not a birthday party for one of them. <strike>It obviously is.</strike></p><p>Written for England's 'birthday' on Saint George's Day, 23rd of April.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jorge's Day

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in two parts on my tumblr. Here be rambling descriptions of food, gardens, the likelihood of handsome Portuguese men being abducted by fairies, and far too much information about roses. If you squint and think you spot the hint of a ship, it's meant to be there.

The sound of the car wheels on gravel must be a dead giveaway to their arrival, since by the time Portugal has slammed the car’s front passenger door shut Wales has the front door of England’s home open wide, his head poking out. “Need a hand with anything?”

“I thought it was the _host’s_ job to ask that,” Spain mutters, going ahead to dig the party essentials – food and presents – out of the boot.

Portugal just elbows his brother in the ribs, and assures Wales that they’re fine.

Loaded up with a box of liberally sugar-sprinkled and chocolate-covered churros (Spain’s contribution), and a two boxes filled, respectively, with buns of Pão de Deus and little balls of marzipan shaped and painted to look like peaches, bought in a shop, Portugal makes his way inside. Clearly he picked the wrong set of things to carry, for _Spain_ finds himself relieved of presents the moment he crosses the threshold, Wales taking the load from him and freeing Spain to head for the toilet. (Although Spain’s self-satisfaction vanishes in an instant when Wales apologetically informs him that, since the downstairs toilet is currently in use, he’ll have to use one upstairs. Just not the first one on the left, since Norway’s fairies are fascinated with how the shower in there works and will spray anyone who enters the room. _Remind me why we came again,_ says Spain’s expression when Wales isn’t looking, and Portugal snorts into the boxes against his chest.)

“Everyone else and the food is out back,” Wales says to Portugal when Spain has vanished upstairs, nodding towards the back of the house – and, undoubtedly, the vast _sprawl_ that is England’s garden beyond. The term ‘garden party’ on the invite for the day would seem to indicate that the garden is where the party would be (although Portugal can distinctly remember more than one English _garden party_ that had been interrupted by a rainstorm, the partying – all the damper for the cloudburst – moving to the kitchen and nearest towel-covered parlour as a result).

“Then I will see you outside?” Portugal offers, when it doesn’t seem like Wales is going to say anything else. (Though his expression says he certainly _wants_ to, just simply doesn’t know best how to phrase it. Wales…does not regard himself as a conversationalist.)

Wales smiles (in obvious relief) and nods, so Portugal makes his way down the main hallway to the back of England’s home by himself. He has been here many, many, _many_ times over the many _more_ years; he hardly needs directions to begin with, and now with a party there are the sounds of conversation for him to follow, music floating in through open doors and windows to him on the air.

All the doors to the back of the house are wide open, sunlight pouring in over the floor. Portugal takes the path through the kitchen since that is the way that is most likely to have the place _food_ is supposed to go, following a trail of discarded plastic cups and empty cans that have yet to have been swept up for recycling. Empty glass bottles glow with the light through them, spirits for cocktails and empty beer bottles shoved to the back, a half-eaten slice of quiche forgotten on a paper plate at the front.

The food really all is in the garden out back, people and animals with it amidst red and white bunting, Portugal carefully stepping over Iceland’s puffin having a stand-off with one of England’s more stubborn cats for a chunk of a sausage roll just to get through the door. Belgium, in one of the wicker chairs on the patio near the house, smiles and raises one hand in a wave when she sees him; Ireland, beside her, is apparently too busy trying on somebody’s immensely floppy sunhat to do the same. The Netherlands, fiddling with a radio nearby, is the source of the music – the getting increasingly _louder_ music, since France, nearby, seems busy chivalrously saving them all from burnt sausages, insisting to an optimistically apronéd Scotland that _really, Écosse, there is_ quite _enough food out already and there is no need to drag out the barbecue as well_ and the Dutchman seems set on drowning both of them out – and the conversation that could be heard _over_ it is from Northern Ireland (who, in jeans, is pointedly declining to join his siblings in all their pale-kneed and shorts-wearing glory) and Gibraltar, who both appear to have taken _root_ beside the shaded food table if the high stack of edibles on Northern Ireland’s plate has anything to say about it, Gibraltar’s mouth, likewise, very much occupied with a large wedge of cake.

North’s plate seems likely to only stack ever higher when Portugal gladly sets his and Spain’s contributions down with the rest, the teenager’s _hey_ to Portugal entirely more lacklustre than the ravenous look he fixes upon the boxes.

“Churros,” Portugal explains, more than used to the boy after so many years, and smiles at the sheepish grin only food seems to mollify out of North right before the young Nation goes to tear into the offerings, juggling food in hand and food not _yet_ in hand with a startling something Portugal would refer to as _grace_ if it didn’t involve making food disappear like fresh meat put before a hungry wolf. “And marzipan,” Portugal offers to Gibraltar, setting a hand on the other teen’s curly head to ruffle up his hair whilst the smaller Nation has his mouth too full to complain at him. “Try and leave some for everyone else?”

Cheeks puffed-up, Gibraltar headbutts him, only to get a much firmer hair-ruffle and head- _shove_ that has Northern Ireland snorting into a mouthful of bread, drawing Gibraltar’s ire down upon him instead.

Portugal helps himself to some of the food whilst the two beside him are distracted, happy to have something _solid_ in his belly after a long drive. There’s quite a spread laid out for this party – ham sandwiches and cucumber sandwiches, and ham and cucumber sandwiches, and roast chicken sandwiches for those who like neither ham nor cucumber. The sausage rolls have (probably thanks to a hungry puffin) nearly all already vanished, although there are still plenty of Dutch meatballs and triangle slices of baked quiche.

The desserts are equally tempting. A humming fridge beneath the table promises trifle and strawberry blancmange and whipped cream for everything else, but up on the tabletop there are pineapple chunks and pear and peach halves, all floating in bowls of their own syrup. Beside them sit cakes – bakewell tarts and cupcakes decorated to look like Saint George’s flag, a strawberry gateau, and a chocolate cake cut into squares already missing about a third of its weight. There are plates (and plates) of biscuits, some twisted cinnamon pastries drizzled with icing, fruit loaf, chocolate dipped marshmallows, and, pushed to one corner, there are red and green meringues decorated to look like what Portugal thinks at first are mutant turtles, only to realise after some squinting they are supposed to be little dragons.

…The meringues are actually _delicious_ , whatever they are, and Portugal wanders away from the table still eating one, another one crumbling in his hand for straight after. Only one meringue down, he relieves Iceland of the rather alcoholic-smelling cocktail the smaller Nation had just poured for himself over by the drinks table (and silences Iceland’s protests by looking _meaningfully_ over at where a puzzled-looking Luxembourg is sitting on the grass and rather intently watching a distracted Norway sitting feeding a slowly-vanishing slice of buttered fruit loaf to thin air. Iceland’s protests die at once, and his next drink of choice from the drinks table is a can of pepsi that he immediately slinks away with).

When Spain (who had apparently ignored Wales’ advice about which toilet to use) appears looking damp and traumatised at his brother’s side, Portugal in turn hands the cocktail to him – who takes one large gulp of the brightly-coloured drink without even looking at it, only to immediately start coughing.

Portugal helpfully holds the drink whilst Spain wheezes, and shrugs when his brother manages one querying _Irlanda?,_ handing Spain back the cocktail (which Spain promptly holds at arm’s length like a lethal weapon).

France – who has apparently won the argument about the barbecue (since Scotland now seems to be sitting on the floor by Ireland’s chair and sulking as she rests a can of beer on his head, the Irish Nation still resplendent in her borrowed floppy sunhat as Belgium hides her smile behind her hand) – spies the scene and presents himself (fingers fluttered in acknowledgement at Portugal) to scold Spain for being so judgemental about the cocktails that _France_ had prepared.

Spain does not look convinced. “Did you watch them _after_ you prepared them?”

France purses his lips. And, just to emphasise to both of the Iberians that his lips are pursed and his is currently a most _wounded_ expression, pushes his shades up to rest on his head so they can see the hurt look in his eyes that is best suited to match his pursed lips. “ _Éspagne,_ you should know by now that _I_ know better than to leave consumables unattended in _this_ household.”

Spain looks just as hurt right back at him. “So _you_ made these drinks so bad?”

 _“Bad!”_ France shifts straight from _wounded_ into full on _indignant,_ snatching the drink in question from his friend’s hand. “ _Nothing_ I make is bad. _Mon ami,_ you are simply losing your taste -”

And takes a gulp of the cocktail.

To France’s credit, he does not cough. But he _does_ go suspiciously red-faced as he struggles to swallow the burning concoction in his mouth, both Portugal and Spain watching in fascination.

After a few moments, and in a very _raw-_ sounding voice: “Perhaps I might have left the drinks unattended for a _little_ while.”

Spain pats his friend consolingly on the back.

Since the host of the party does not seem to be around, Portugal goes to sit with Luxembourg on the grass. The cocktails clearly being compromised, he bribes a spot on the warm earth beside the other Nation with a can of lemonade, another for himself, his hand cold with condensation from the metal when Luxembourg takes one can from him with a smile. (A smile and an _obrigado_ even, which says the Luxembourgish Nation has been practicing with the descendants – or seasonal workers – of Portugal’s people in his own country. Portugal silently raises his lemonade to him in an acknowledging thank you toast.)

The two of them drink in silence for a little while – although Luxembourg still seems very preoccupied with Norway’s little magic trick, the Nordic Nation now making marshmallows in his palm disappear in tiny, tiny strange little bites Portugal does not particularly want to think about too hard.

Eventually, Luxembourg glances back to Portugal, though his head is tilted towards Norway. “Have you ever…?”

Portugal looks up from his lemonade, stretching one leg out long in the grass. (England hasn’t cut the lawn for a little while – the grass is verdant and bouncy, soft against the skin the way it _isn’t_ after someone has recently shorn off all its tops and let it to dry out under the sun.) “Hm?”

Fringe in his eyes, Luxembourg tilts his head a little _more_ meaningfully at Norway – who is, when Portugal looks over at him, vanishing the last of a particularly pink marshmallow. (Wherever the treat is going, hopefully someone – or some _thing_ – is enjoying it.)

“…No,” says Portugal, because exposure to England and England’s family has meant he has been asked the question many a time before, and yet, however hard he has tried (on those occasions when he truly _did_ try, because, frustrated, he _wanted_ to see, so badly, just to understand the wonder in England’s smile), he has never been able to see the world the same way as any of them. “Never.” He pauses. “Although, perhaps…”

Luxembourg perks, looking ardently youthful and hopeful and somehow giving off the impression of a particularly excited pedigree puppy. “Yes?”

Portugal wrinkles his nose. Tries to remember (because he hates upsetting puppies). “There were…things. When I was small, and very, very young.”

Bright things, gleaming scales sliding sinuously through the dust. Puzzling things, lying out flat on the ground with his ear to the earth, wondering at the sound of the rocks moving, the digging coming from _below._ Shadows, mostly, long things come ashore scraping off sea-salt from their hides on the barks of the orchard trees in the evening when it was too dark to see them anymore, pushing past the whisperers with coal-eyes who chased children back to their homes at night.

Smiling women with long hair and golden combs, singing to the rocks which dead people slept inside.

Portugal opens his eyes again – scarcely realising until he does so that he had closed them in the first place – and shakes his head, clearing away the cobwebs in his thoughts. “But that is so long ago now, and I was a child. I couldn’t tell you what was real anymore, and what I imagined. Or what my people imagined for me.” A sudden idea hits him, along with a bolt of amusement that has him smiling again at its relevance. “Much like tales of valiant knights slaying dreadful dragons!”

“Här Wales will ban you from eating the meringues if he hears you call dragons imaginary,” Luxembourg warns him. “He already took them away from Iceland until he said sorry.”

“It is a good day to be protective of dragons,” Portugal concedes, “imaginary or not.” He goes to take another swallow of his lemonade – but the lights go out all of a sudden, darkness obscuring the sun. Or just. A very large person. _Looming_ directly over Portugal and yet casting absolutely no shade on the smiling Luxembourg.

“Brother,” Luxembourg greets the Netherlands, who has apparently decided to stop fiddling with the radio (leaving it on a channel that flicks between warbling ballads and punk-ish pop) to remember how to be sociable.

“You make a bad window,” says Portugal, and shifts on the grass so he can squeeze up against Luxembourg and get some sun again, since a) without the sun the grass gets cold, b) nudging up against Luxembourg is likely to irritate the one who _made_ him move in the first place, and c) asking the Netherlands to move after he has _planted_ himself would be about as effective as appealing to the sympathetic nature of a boulder.

(Luxembourg, on the other hand, actually manages to _radiate_ as much warmth as the hopeful puppy he looks like, proving that not all appearances are deceiving. How did Belgium and this soft, sunny, sparkling child _ever_ end up related to someone like _Holanda_?)

Luxembourg looks pleased to have closer company, and leans into Portugal.

Portugal tries – not very hard – not to look too smug at the Netherlands.

The Netherlands looks very much like he wants to break Portugal’s kneecap. If not the rest of him. He has such a _glare_ for a birthday party!

…Although, speaking of, Portugal has been there a while now, and – well. It is not so much a birthday party, if the one whose _birthday_ it is is not there to host. (Even Wales has come outside now, joining Belgium, Scotland and Ireland at their table and saying something that has made Belgium laugh.)

Portugal looks up to the Netherlands, shading his eyes since the standing Nation is rimmed by the heat of the sun. “Have you seen Inglaterra?”

Luxembourg answers, nudging Portugal from the side as he shifts on the grass, holding his lemonade loose between his legs. “He’s down the bottom of the garden somewhere, I think? He was talking with Här Scotland and Sealand earlier about the colourful flowers coming in, and then he said something about Sealand being curious and,” a shrug, coupled with Luxembourg’s apologetic smile, “off they went? Här Scotland stayed here because Här France asked him to carry food out from the kitchen.”

Portugal frowns a little. “Surely Sealand wasn’t being so troublesome Inglaterra had to take him away from the rest of the party?” Sealand is usually quite good about these things on special days – mostly because there are usually a lot of desserts out, the desserts are usually the best-made parts of British cooking (especially if his siblings are the chefs), and he can be as bad as Northern Ireland for making good food disappear.

“Sealand was just an excuse,” says the Netherlands, all folded arms and blunt.

Which at least makes sense.

“Inglaterra is running away from his birthday party again,” Portugal says, and sighs, putting down his drink in the grass.

“We don’t have birthdays,” says the Netherlands, at the same time as his wilting younger brother says:

“And he doesn’t even know sister made him a birthday cake yet.”

It has always been easy to ignore a looming Dutchman when a) Portugal does not owe the man any money, and b) the Dutchman in question is being incredibly dour.

So he looks encouragingly to Luxembourg. “Birthday cake?”

“With strawberries,” Luxembourg confirms, looking quite comfortable as he leans further back into Portugal’s chest, Portugal easily taking his weight. Luxembourg’s smile dims after a few seconds though. “Although I think Ireland provided the candles.”

How many ca-

Netherlands elaborates, a hint of _something_ just beginning to tug his lips upwards at the corner of his mouth. “They say _lost count._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

There is a saying that Portugal has heard more than a few times in the British Isles. In his experience, it usually comes from the mouths of exasperated parents chastising their children when something is decidedly _not_ where the adult in question recalls leaving it – and the children staunchly deny being the ones responsible.

_‘If you didn’t take it, then who did? The fairies at the bottom of the garden?’_

Portugal doesn’t think he has ever actually _seen_ the bottom of England’s garden in his country home, so he can’t verify whether fairies live at the bottom of it or not. Not that Portugal has ever put a great deal of effort into trying to _find_ said bottom of the garden, since there are a great many distracting things beside beautiful flowers (which, in their own right, can be distraction enough) to be found between the house and the unknowable end of the property. (Added to that, the few times he can recall suggesting going for an extended (implicitly romantically-inclined) tour around the garden – once in the orange evening sun of a Victorian October, and once more for a moonlight stroll on an unusually balmy Midsummer’s night in the 80s – he had been politely dissuaded from the idea. The first time by Ireland, hanging around the periphery of the conversation and snorting at England’s blushes, who had told him quite frankly that that was a _terrible_ idea (and then muttered something under her breath about Portugal sensing _just_ enough to wander wilfully into trouble because it struck his fancy just enough for it to feel _interesting_ ). The second time England had shut down the proposition himself with a _perhaps another time_ , and despite the warmth of the night had went around his house checking all his doors and windows were shut and locked. And then shutting the curtains too, sparing the moon from any blushes at the way their skin had stuck to the sheets of England’s bed later in the night.)

Having volunteered for the solo mission to find the missing host of the _obviously_ -not-a-birthday-party going on back up at the patio by the house (and been ordered to drag him – and his excuse masquerading as a micronation – back to said party by his ear if necessary), Portugal sincerely hopes that today isn’t the day that he actually finds the bottom of England’s garden. Some of life’s little mysteries are better off remaining as they are, _mysteries,_ and he doesn’t fancy doing what he assumes will be a long trek both ways through fauna cultivated to be deliberately chaotic.

Most of the strictest organisation for the country garden is reserved for the enclosed vegetable and herb garden up near the house’s kitchens, set right beside the long row of greenhouses whose gleaming glass panes had been smashed, according to England’s many weary recounts over the centuries, by a seemingly endless procession of ardent young colonies (and more than a few times, their slightly more shame-faced guardians) with a great variety of sports equipment and remarkably poor aim. (Or very _good_ aim, depending on how pure England had taken the then young Australia’s intent to be when he ‘accidentally’ managed to put a cricket ball through six panes of glass in half as many days.) Everywhere else, an organised kind of chaos reigns, and in summer Portugal knows the familiar pathway he is currently making his way along will have a riot of different flowers spilling over their borders onto it, the air humming with birds, bees, and the determined croaking of tiny green frogs who must live in some kind of pond or water tank _somewhere_ in the mess but seem to like hopping about the path and almost giving Portugal a heart attack when he almost steps on one.

In April, the flowers are blooming but still fairly restrained, and the air is quiet save for very faint music from the party, birdsong in the trees and a tiny _peep_ from a ruffled blue tit that Portugal startles taking a bath in an old stone bird bath. There’s the sound of running water too, which Portugal initially assumes is coming _from_ the bird bath – but the surface of the water in the basin is still when the breeze doesn’t touch it, its curve filled with rainwater alone. And then he hears, quiet but very distinctly, a child’s voice:

“They look kind of boring.”

Portugal grins and begins moving in the direction the boy’s voice had come from, led on by the sound of running water getting louder, a deeper voice insisting: “They’ll look better later in the summer.”

Mumbling, too low for Portugal to catch.

“Because roses do better with companion plants, that’s why.”

“What, roses have _friends?_ ” Disbelief.

“That’s a good way to put it, yes. As well as providing a nice background to the roses, companion plants attract bees and butterflies, and keep off pests.”

The path beneath Portugal’s feet branches in two directions, and he pauses for a second to take his bearings as the conversation he’s following reaches its own natural pause. The path to his centre-right seems to lead off further into the garden, down a few stone steps and meandering away. Portugal knows for a _fact_ there’s a rock garden somewhere down that way (guarded by some truly ghastly – ceramic – garden gnomes whose presence England staunchly defends as _they_ _add colour to the scenery_ , magically becoming deaf to all pointed comments along the lines of _isn’t that what the_ flowers _are for?_ ).

The (sharp) left path, on the other hand, will lead Portugal through a gap between two severely sheared hedges and straight to the first part of England’s enclosed rose gardens. The rose gardens, at least, are an area he’s familiar with; he and England have spent time there together often enough – for tea, for talking, for tending the flowers (and throwing earth at each other’s heads, wrestling in the dirt and the grass until Portugal’s hair, full of shredded grass and daisies, had stuck to his skin with sweat, and he hadn’t been able to tell if England trapped beneath him was red from laughter, sunburn, or exertion).

England has always, as long as Portugal can remember, loved roses, even as a child when the thorns of his red roses and white roses tore bloody streaks through his hands, just as those who rode under those banners pulled his mind and body and his country this way and that. In fact, the roses are some of the only flowers that Portugal has ever actually _seen_ England tendingin his garden. (Digging up weeds by the patio hardly counts, even if the dandelions are rather vengefully dumped on France’s head.) How he manages the rest, Portugal has little idea.

Still. The roses are favoured, have always been favoured – and it is from the rose garden the sound of running water comes, the fat undulating coil of a garden hose evident as its source as Portugal takes the left path, approaching the entrance to the garden.

The hose is connected to a slightly rusty-looking water tap by the potting shed on the right, snaking left across the paths of the rose garden until it reaches two very familiar figures crouched down in the grass before a dark red rose bush and its surrounding greenery. Both blond heads, so very alike to each other, have their backs to the entrance of the rose garden and Portugal, the smaller very intent on the force of the water coming out of the end of the hosepipe in his hands, the larger looking between the flowers and the boy beside him.

England lays a steadying hand on Sealand’s shoulder. “You’re trying to water them, not create a moat.”

Sealand protests, “But moats are _cool -_ ” until England’s grip tightens just a shade, and the boy sighs gustily, directing the flow of the water from the hose further along. “You’re an _island._ Aren’t you supposed to think moats are cool?”

“Moats stopped being so useful when they invented cannons that could fire over them.” England pauses, apparently considering, and misses the tread of Portugal’s feet in the grass behind him. “Plus, they _reeked_ in the summer.”

Sealand is similarly absorbed – or invested in his own argument, at least. “So they’re _good_ then. Nobody wants to invade a stinky castle!”

England laughs, enough that Portugal’s own lips quirk upwards. “Considering everything stunk of _something_ foul back then, it wasn’t as effective a defence as you might think.”

“I don’t know,” says Portugal, abruptly leaning over England’s shoulder, absolutely intending to finish that sentence with a teasing _Inglaterra here always seemed to try and take a bath before I arrived._

Instead, he finds _himself_ the one suddenly taking a bath, England falling backwards off his haunches hard into Portugal’s knees just as Sealand _yelps,_ instinctively lashing out with his hands. His hands _holding a hosepipe._

Bent over as he is, the hose’s stream of ice cold brackish water hits Portugal straight in the face. He instinctively turns away from the cold (and almost trips over England), but not before he has accidentally gasped at the sudden drop in temperature and managed to get a mouthful of water tasting like _hose._ “Sealand!”

As soon as Sealand’s mind has registered that he’s pointing a hose at someone (rather than some _thing_ ), the boy is blurting out a _sorry_ , turning the hose away from Portugal – but unfortunately, not from _England,_ the stream of water hitting England under the chin (and going straight up England’s nose, judging by the rather undignified snorting sound he makes).

 _“Sealand,”_ England gasps, turns his face aside (into Portugal’s knee, actually, which Portugal does his best not to instinctively break his friend’s nose with), still blind from water.

 _“Sorry!”_ Sealand wails again, and drops the hose entirely. Thankfully, it does _not_ end up pointing at anyone’s face or crotch or up the inside of England’s denim shorts, though England gets a blast of cold water across his foot before he retracts his leg. “I didn’t mean to!”

“It’s okay,” Portugal manages as he straightens, right before a soggy clump of his own hair slaps him rather wetly on the mouth. _Ugh._ He scrapes it away, face twisting into a moue of disgust. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you both.”

“No,” England says firmly, and stops clinging to Portugal’s leg so he can deliver a rather half-hearted _slap_ to the back of Portugal’s thigh (that doesn’t hurt, but has Portugal casting wounded eyes down at him all the same), “you _shoudn’t’ve._ God,” England starts picking at his wet shirt where it’s sticking to his skin, pointedly reminding Portugal of the sopping cloth clinging uncomfortably to his _own_ body, “I’m drenched.”

Portugal grins. “That’s what _she-_ ”

England smacks his leg again, and this time it _does_ sting.

“I didn’t _mean_ to,” Sealand says rather earnestly again, still rocking on his haunches like he doesn’t know whether he should be sitting down to repentantly receive a scolding or shooting up to his feet so he can run away.

Portugal can’t help himself, leaning down to ruffle up the boy’s hair with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “It is really okay. _Mea culpa –_ it was my fault.”

Sealand’s uplifted bewildered expression reminds Portugal so much of England’s from centuries ago, the same messy hair, the same stubbornly freckled nose, the same confusion in eyes that have all of England’s brightness though they are blue rather than green. (How long it has been, since so many of their kind was so small!)

“ _Tua_ maxima _culpa,_ ” England grumbles, and gives up on plucking at his shirt to rake back his dripping-wet hair from his face. “Sealand, go grab us some towels from the spare linen cupboard, would you? Ask Wales if you can’t find them -” Sealand has already ducked out from under Portugal’s hand, practically jumping up to his feet and already two steps away from them before England manages to add, “and switch the hose off on your way!”

A brisk _yessir!_ and the sound of screeching metal marks Sealand doing as bid, Portugal offering his hanging hand to England to help the other Nation up from the grass as the hose’s stream of water slows to a trickle before stopping.

England _squelches_ when he puts his foot down, and Portugal winces.

“I am so glad I didn’t bring your present out with me.”

“Don’t complain about things that are your own damn fault,” England reminds him, his hand still braced on Portugal’s forearm and his nose firmly wrinkled down at his own soggy shoe. “And you should’ve brought spare clothes in your overnight bag.”

“I did,” Portugal assures him (though he left his and Spain’s bags in the boot of their car), and smiles.

Somehow, despite his own soaking, despite the hair clinging wetly to his nape, the wet shirt moulding itself to his back, and the exceedingly _damp_ nature of his trousers, he doesn’t feel truly bothered by any of this. It might be something to do with that it’s a party day; it might be because it’s only _water_ that he’s been drenched with; it might _even_ be that England looks like a disgruntled cat that has been left out in the rain and then dragged through a hedge backwards, his raked-back hair being to dry into little silly spikes atop his head like a startled hedgehog, but Portugal really doesn’t mind. (And is beginning to want to either laugh at the little spikes of hair atop England’s head, or laugh and muss them up some more, just to hear England squawk at him.)

So he smiles, warm and affectionate and apparently confusing England when England stops scowling at his squelching shoe long enough to look up and meet Portugal’s eyes. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?” A rhetorical question, Portugal squeezing England’s arm (just as England holds his) to prevent the other from leading them straight back to pointing fingers. “But we should dry soon, I think. It seems nice today.”

Like any true Brit Portugal has _ever_ known, England seizes upon the topic of the weather like a drowning man presented with a life-ring. “We _have_ had rather a spate of nice weather lately.”

“Just in time for your birthday.”

And the life-ring deflates, England sighing. “…I’ve told you _before_ : it’s not my birthday. I can’t even _remember_ my birthday.”

None of their kind can, really, though a lot of them claim a day for themselves all the same.

Portugal shrugs, feeling the weight of damp fabric shifting against his shoulder-blades. “It is a _you_ day though, which is the closest thing for a lot of our kind.”

But England persists: “But it’s not a _birth_ day.” Stubborn man.

Luckily, Portugal has a few more years of practice on England at being stubborn. “It might not be the day when you were _born,_ but it is the day everyone is allowed to be obviously _glad_ you were born.” He squeezes England’s arm again, since England still hasn’t taken his hand back. “I think Sao Jorge would appreciate his day being used to spoil people.”

More than it already is, countries expressing thanks for past victories, lovers and loved ones kissing cheeks and exchanging books and flowers and beautiful words. There’s a bright vase of Spanish carnations in Portugal’s window at home, a gift he’d received in the early hours of that morning, and Spain’s bag, in turn, is now weighted down just a little more with a new Portuguese music book. It is a day for love.

England’s ears are slowly turning red. “You can’t spoil what’s already ruined.” Portugal makes a disapproving noise, quite prepared to cut in at _that,_ but England goes on: “He’s not even exclusively _my_ patron saint. But then you’d know that very well already – _wouldn’t_ you, _Portugal e Sao Jorge?_ ”

“ _Em perigos e guerras esforçados,”_ Portugal finishes easily enough, his army’s motto flowing off the tongue as easily as it had done since it had first been given to him. Portugal and Saint George – in dangers and wars strengthened. “Perhaps I should pray for his aid in my battle to get you to let us give you a _birthday_ party.”

England takes his arm back at last, and thumps Portugal’s chest lightly with its fist. “At least pray to _another_ one of your endless blasted saints. I’ve only the one.”

Portugal just grins at him, covering the fist with an open palm against his breast. Fist or not, England’s hand is warm compared to the damp of his clothes. “I can hardly pray to São _Gabriel_ for this; he’s the patron of messengers and diplomats. Archangel or not, what could he do to convince _you_ of anything? Smack you with his horn?”

“I’d probably dent the horn,” says England.

“Only if it hit your head,” Portugal cheerfully agrees, and laughs at the thoroughly unimpressed look he gets for it. England may pout if he wishes; some things Portugal just _isn’t_ going to argue against. “I was ordered to bring you back to your party, you know. People were beginning to miss you.”

England looks dubious, though his hand beneath Portugal’s hand slowly uncurls.

“If you leave it any longer they might start inviting the _rest_ of the world to join them,” Portugal warns him, because that really _will_ have England sulking amongst his rosebushes. “That means everyone who couldn’t make it today because _someone_ kept insisting that this was just a casual _garden party_ they shouldn’t take time out of their schedules for.”

England has the grace to look _slightly_ embarrassed. “The party’s in the _garden,_ isn’t it? So obviously it’s a garden party.” He shifts his weight to one foot awkwardly when Portugal just keeps _looking_ at him, and his shoe _squelches_ again. (He’s going to have to take that off before it’ll dry.) “…Of some description.”

“A bad description,” says Portugal, and threads his fingers through the fingers of England’s hand he still holds. (Perhaps it’s flattering, how England seems to trust Portugal with his hands, though his cheeks pinken and his gaze flickers to where they meet. Bright eyes, freckled nose, messy hair and affection being met with blushing and/or confusion – it is a day for saints and memories, isn’t it?) “Let’s go back to the party. I brought marzipan and I want some before Gibraltar eats it all.”

They do go back to the party. They go back hand-in-hand, with Portugal leading the way (and England questioning only once why it is that _Portugal_ is the one leading England anywhere, let alone through England’s own garden), surprising the blue tit that had thought it could resume taking a bath without interruptions (Portugal thinks he may have now made a tiny avian enemy for himself there) and making it all the way back to the lawn until a very red-faced Sealand bumps into them again, the boy’s arms piled with towels. Portugal takes the top towel gratefully, yanking off his shirt (and leaving it to dry out flat on the grass) so he can finally rub off the _clammy_ feeling of wet clothes against his skin.

England, who (accidentally) almost gets hit in the face with the shirt as it comes off and then almost collides with Portugal’s now very bare back, splutters something amusingly incomprehensible from behind – before immediately going off to lay into France for his immediate and particularly enthusiastic cry of: _“Take it all off!”_

The only thing that stopsEngland and France from turning things into either a brawl or a nudist party (it is difficult to tell which would be the end result. France seems to have lost his own shirt somewhere between England yanking on the Frenchman’s hair and France attempting to choke England by his shirt collar, and both of them are yelling about perversion and clothing) is Scotland, who strolls up to Sealand, takes another towel from the micronation, and then loops said towel around England’s throat, _yanking_ him out of France’s startled clutches whilst England’s words die in a _wheeze._

“Dry yourself off,” says Scotland, and drops the towel over his brother’s head just as England gets enough breath back to protest. “You’ll drip on the food.”

Since people seem afraid England will just vanish on them again, Northern Ireland’s services are requisitioned to go grab a new shirt from England’s wardrobe. England, meanwhile, rather sulkily kicks off his wet shoes and goes to sit on the grass, towel around his neck and hair sticking up even _worse_ than before after he has scrubbed at it a bit. Belgium and Wales have both migrated there since Portugal saw them last (Belgium still missing her sunhat, which appears to now be very much Ireland’s fashion statement of the day), joining Luxembourg (draped out on his sister’s lap whilst Belgium pets his hair) and Norway (who has _finally_ stopped feeding things to the thin air). The four of them and England quickly get into a conversation about chocolate, by the sounds of it, which is interesting enough that Gibraltar finds it a good excuse to wriggle away from Spain’s reproachful eye and join them on the lawn, bumping up against Wales’ knee as Ireland casually sidetracks Spain from following him, directing Spain to the drinks table with her instead.

“If he ends up snoring off a hangover under a table,” France confides to Portugal, lazily leaning on the wall of the house beside the food table where there is still – miracles of miracles – some marzipan treats left as both Nations keep one wary eye on Spain, “I will pay you for pictures.”

Busy stacking up a plate with marzipan and meringues, Portugal lifts an eyebrow at him. “Isn’t that the sort of business proposition one usually takes to _Holanda_?”

France smiles, slow and considerate as he tilts his head back against the stone behind him, his gaze on Portugal’s chest just a little too sharp about the eyes to be indolent. “I can afford to be picky, _mon frère_ , and I _always_ pick the prettiest option.”

Portugal smiles back at him blithely, dropping a cinnamon twist on top of his pile of snacks and sucking off the sugar that has rubbed off of his thumb. “Flattery will get you nearly everywhere, but right now I’d rather eat.”

He does so, as France sighs rather melodramatically behind him, wandering off to munch through his bounty and observe Scotland and the Netherlands teaching Iceland how to cheat at cards, Sealand dropping his leftover towels on a chair to hang off of Scotland’s arm and peer at his hand. By the time Portugal’s halfway through his plate his hair has almost dried out in a mess of curls, and (a slightly traumatised-looking) Northern Ireland has returned from inside with a change of clothing for his brother. Belgium wolf-whistles at England’s exposed chest – pale and exposed for all of three seconds before his blush floods it red and he’s rapidly yanked his new shirt on -, but she’s up with a bright bounce shortly afterwards (the length of time it takes for Luxembourg to find a new pillow) and, with a little help from Ireland, bringing out birthday cake.

The cake is a wide thick rectangle, cream and jam and strawberries. England’s expression brightens when he sees it, getting to his feet – until he spies the candles atop it, nine wax lit letters spaced between strawberry halves, as the Netherlands promised, spelling _lost count._

“No killing on your birthday,” Portugal reminds him, and only gets elbowed _once_ when he braces an arm around England’s chest to stop him from lunging at his siblings for laughing. (Perhaps the _birthday_ lessons are sinking in at last.)

England blows out the candles on his cake if only to get rid of them, and by the time it’s served up he’s a great deal more amicable than before (which is to say, he’s not attempting to swipe at Ireland anymore, although he does toss his soggy towel at her). When Portugal, full on slightly too many meringues, gives him most of his slice of birthday cake England actually gains something approaching _birthday spirit –_ or just actual spirit, because Spain brings over the lethal cocktails from the drinks table and about three full glasses (each) later both he _and_ England are flat on their backs in the grass and talking about flowers in the clouds.

(Birthday or not, Portugal _does_ take pictures of that.)

“To Saint George,” Portugal offers, holding a glass over Spain and England’s heads to get both of their attentions and hearing most of the party echo him. “And to England.”

“To _me_ ,” England agrees, alcohol apparently having quietened his inferiority complex for the moment, and consents to being propped on the lawn by Portugal – if only so he can take Portugal’s drink and hold it higher. “And my people, and every other tosser out there who does something today.”

(“To the tossers,” the Netherlands and Scotland solemnly agree – only for both of them to be met with a hissed international chorus of _brother, NO._ )

**Author's Note:**

> Because I’m ridiculous about offhand details – there was a full moon on June 22 in 1986, the closest full moon to a Midsummer’s night in the 80s.
> 
> England has just one patron saint. Portugal has quite a few, among them Saint George and Saint Gabriel the Archangel (who is attributed in Byzantine art and early modern literature as being the one whose horn-blast will signal the rising of the dead and thus the apocalypse. Biblically, the trumpeter is never named. Islamic tradition has Israfil as the trumpeter, though, again, the Qur’an does not name him).


End file.
